War x Barkeep!Reader.
Chapter 1~: Earthcaller.
Summary: The End of the World has come and gone, and Humanity is picking itself out of the ashes, overseen by species you only believed to exist on the pages of an old book written over two thousand years ago. You're the proprietor of a pub that you built from the ruins of your old neighbourhood, never dreaming that you'd catch the eye of the Four's largest and most carnage-craving member.
This is a real stream of consciousness fic, tried to write in a few days instead of my usual turnover so you can probably tell the difference, but it's been far too long since I've written anything War-centric.
Warning: Contains mention of alcohol, threats with a gun, threats without a gun, Fury gets her own tag, and one-sided infatuation.
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The first time you saw a Horseman of the Apocalypse in person, he was hunting down one of your patrons.
Each of the Fouris distinct and recognisable, but War seemed doubly-so that night, storming into your little pub with a face like roaring thunder and his eyes so bright with arcane light, they could’ve powered the whole town.
Your entire establishment almost turned to stone the moment he burst through the door so violently, the poor thing snapped clear off its hinges. His blood-red hood was tugged back to pool around his fearsome shoulders, revealing the pale, white face and ferocious snarl you’d only ever seen on the news.
To this day, you can still remember the shock that stole the breath in your lungs, then the unmitigated horror of registering that an Apocalyptic Horseman was inside your pub, scanning wildly over your regulars until his gaze landed distinct on Joseph Carr.
‘Oh, Joseph,’ you’d grimaced to yourself, heart sinking into your shoes, ‘What’ve you done now?’
You’ve kicked Joseph out of your pub enough times to know he’s got a bad habit of riling up the wrong people. Brazen, bold, and downright foolish at the worst moments... But he’s also twenty-four. Frightened by the new world you’ve all woken up in. And prone to doing stupid things if his so-called ‘friends’ put him up to it.
As war had started lurching across the room towards the babbling young man, he’d sent tables, chairs, and people scattering like papers knocked from a desk.
Wood splintered, everyone was shouting or gasping, and with murder written plain as day across War’s snarling face, you’d thought nothing of scooting out from behind the bar and jogging directly into his path, head tipped back to look him right in those weird, glowing eyes.
“Can I help you, Horseman?” you’d asked disarmingly through gritted teeth, less surprised at your own gumption, and more that he’d come to an abrupt halt just before crashing into you.
War stops for nobody. You and everyone in that room had heard the mantra repeated a thousand times before by various sources.
The glare you were subjected to at that moment was almost hot enough to melt through solid steel. But even beyond the rage, there was the flicker of a blink and a fleeting glance from left to right that betrayed one thing; He was just as shocked as you were to find you standing there.
You thought he’d knock you aside. You thought he’d simply bulldoze right on through you like he had the rest of your pub.
Hell, you thought he’d just straight up kill you for the crime of getting in his way.
Which is why it came as such a shock that the hulking, stoic brute didn’t immediately resort to violence, and instead chose to speak.
“Stand aside, human,” he boomed authoritatively, raising his eyes over your head to stare down the kid behind you, “This is none of your concern.”
You must have had a death-wish that evening because you’d drawn yourself up to your full height – still woefully small compared to the Nephilim – and snorted at him, the over-friendly smile on your face wavering like a mirage.
“Actually,” you bristled, “This is my bar. That was my furniture…“ Here, you throw an arm out in gesture at the destruction he’d left in his wake, and War actually turned his head to look, blinking as if he was taken aback by the ruination behind him.
“And these-“ you added sharply, jabbing a thumb over your shoulder at the young man sinking lower and lower in his seat, “Are my patrons… So, I’m afraid it is my concern when a Horseman comes stomping in here looking like he wants to tear this place up from the foundations.”
Later, your patrons would ask if you were looking to die. Not really, you assured them, but the thing about dying is, after you’ve done it once, the next time doesn’t seem quite so daunting. And when it became public knowledge that a soul will go on forever even if the present host won’t, suddenly death stops seeming like the End.
But perhaps, more to the point, you’d been sampling the whiskey that evening, and a dose of the old liquid courage was enough to drown your inhibitions. What more could you say?
“Perhaps I should,” War had posited, leaning forwards to smother you in his shadow, a promised threat, “Perhaps I should raze this hovel to the ground for sheltering a coward and a thief.”
… The ‘hovel’ comment aside, what he said set off alarm bells at once.
You craned your neck over a shoulder immediately to send Joseph a withering glare of your own. “Joe? Why is one of the Horsemen accusing you of theft?” you asked, strained voice dripping saccharin.
To his credit, Joseph didn’t really try to deny anything, though he had gone exceptionally pale, eyes darting everywhere except for your face.
“I-… It was just a joke!” he insisted indignantly, sending a ripple of exasperated groans cresting through the pub.
And there came the dread, that awful realisation that this idiot might have just doomed your entire clientele on the back of a joke.
“I was gonna give it back!” he continued, floundering, “But then he chased me and threatened to kill me!”
“Fucking Hell, Joe,” you seethed through your teeth, turning around to face him, “Now I’m thinking of killing you. What the Hell did you do!?”
You can still recall the heat rolling off War and across your back as the Horseman swept his gaze to and fro between you and his quarry.
With all the reluctant concession of a dog giving up the bone is stole from next door’s yard, Joseph heaved a contemptuous sigh, peeling his rucksack off and flipping open the canvas lid, where he proceeded to pull out something long and –
“What the-… Is that some kind of drinking horn?” you’d gawped.
Behind you, War’s guttural timbre reaches your ear. “Earthcaller,” he groused, shifting his weight from side to side as if to move around you.
It was a long arm of bone, carved with strange, demonic faces. An instrument that definitely looked like it would belong to a Nephilim, not a human.
“Jesus, Mary, Joseph,” you’d groaned, commiserated by most of the other patrons, “Do you want to die? Because pulling stupid shit like this is how you die.”
“It was just a joke,” he mumbled again as you snatched the horn out of his limp grasp, resisting the urge to rip out your hair.
“Jokes are meant to be funny,” you snipped, “If this is your idea of one, you might be comically challenged.”
That had earned a few uncomfortable titters from people who still had most of their attention fixed on War.
The Horseman in question was still livid, even as you turned back to him and held the horn out for him to take.
“I’m really sorry he did that,” you said with utmost sincerity. Because you were sorry, though even War seemed belligerent on your behalf.
“You were not the one who stole from me,” he pointed out in a deep, thrumming growl.
“Like I said; my pub, my patrons , my problem,” you offered pleasantly, shrugging a shoulder as the Nephilim reached out a gauntlet and all but tore the thing out of your hand.
You swallowed down the urge to ask how a young human had managed to pickpocket something so large from one of the Four.
“But, if he does something stupid like this again,” you added, “He’s on his own. Whether he tries to hide in here or not.”
The warning was aimed at a very contrite Joseph cowering behind you, who appeared to be quite literally shrinking under the burden of everyone’s attention.
War had regarded you for several, terse seconds during which you counted no less that seven, hard blinks – the only sign of uncertainty he’d ever offer - until eventually, his lips started to curl.
“I do not need your permission to exact justice,” he warned you, even as he turned his back on you and began to storm right out the way he came in, massive fists clenched into bludgeons at his sides.
He didn’t even attempt to pick his way around the debris, apparently riled enough to tread the splinters into your carpet and make the whole mess even worse.
But… against the odds, he left.
You survived. You stepped in the way of War and lived.
And most miraculously of all, nobody got hurt!
Well, Joseph might have disagreed with that one… He was forced to flee behind your bar with his arms slung protectively around his head, trying to escape the clips and blows landed upon him by several, righteously furious patrons.
But so long as they didn’t kill the daft bastard, you couldn’t care to intervene…
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The second time you saw the Horseman was the very next morning.
Once again, War’s recognisable frame had come striding into your pub, though in this instance, rather than kick the door off its hinges, he ducked beneath the frame you still hadn’t found a moment to repair, bowing his shoulders inwards so as not to scrape the wood with his massive pauldrons.
You just counted your lucky stars that you’d had the wherewithal to put up a sign outside declaring that the pub was unofficially ‘closed’ for the day, leaving it devoid of unsuspecting humans, save for yourself.
He looked so different from the rampaging beast you saw prior that you might have believed him to be a demon in disguise.
He spotted you at once, zeroing in on your stricken face where you hovered behind the bar with a dishrag in one hand and a smudged glass in the other, caught like a deer in headlights whilst the blood-red hood of a pickup truck comes bearing down on you.
When he started making his way over, decidedly avoiding the remnants of tables and chairs he himself had left broken, you expected some retribution for your boldness yesterday.
You didn’t expect a fist-sized sack of gilt to be unceremoniously dumped on the bartop, spilling golden coins all across the polished, black surface when the twine holding it closed came undone.
“To replace what was destroyed,” he rumbled, and when you peered up into his hood, you were staggered to find that he wasn't meeting your eye. The shadows cast by the scarlet fabric did much to conceal his complexion, though you suspected he must have been exerting himself just before he arrived because there was a ruddiness to his cheeks that hadn't been there the day prior.
Blinking stupidly, you glanced down at the pile of gilt, then lifted your gaze back up to the towering Horseman, gobsmacked.
Of all the impossibilities the Universe has ever thrown at you and proven possible, this was never even in the cards. You've seen angels, demons, the dead walking around like they still have a pulse. You've seen beyond the realm of what you thought you knew, but this?
A Horseman of the Apocalypse... War, no less. Trying to make amends for the damage he'd done....
You actually had to steal a peek at the glass in your hand just to check it wasn't suddenly full of liquor.
“I… This is… enough to buy a whole new pub,” you’d huffed out in an incredulous laugh.
War’s expression didn’t shift in the slightest. All he did was roll his shoulders once and turn his head to the side, glowering hard at a spot on the wall opposite as he declares, “It is of no concern to me what you do with it.”
“Oh, well then, you won’t mind if I give some of it back,” you replied crisply, pressing your knuckles to the bar top and watching his snowy brows creep together as he pivots his focus back to you.
“Seriously. This is…” Pausing to shake your head in disbelief at the gold glittering against the ebony surface, you finally scoffed, “Way too much.”
Once again, the Horseman got that look about him, like he was trying to follow a script and you just weren't sticking to your lines. He must have decided you were talking nonsense because after shooting a few glances between your face and the pile of gilt, he simply turned his back on both, likely deciding it wasn't worth his time to try and argue with you.
Bemused, you just watched him cross your bar, not missing how he - again - weaved around your overturned furniture... Not that it would have mattered if he'd bulldozed through it again. You could only chuck it out anyway.
You'd merely shrugged to yourself and resumed your task of cleaning the glass, the cloth squeaking against it as you wiped lipstick smudges from the rim.
“Well look, feel free to stop in for a drink some time. This-" Again, you nodded at the gilt. "- more than covers a pretty hefty tab!”
Your offer brought to a standstill, twisting his hood around to frown at you from the corner of a single, scrupulous eye.
"I am not in the habit of consuming human beverages," he scoffed.
"Then just stop in to say hi," you offered easily, "Everyone's welcome to walk through those doors... Even if it's just to escape the rain."
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The third time you met a Horseman, it wasn't War.
You very nearly swallowed your tongue to see the dreaded Fury strolling in through your doors, her hair aflame and her eyes roving the pub as if in search of something, much like her brother had before her.
When she spotted you behind the bar, through the throng of people who were just beginning to notice her presence and subsequently threw themselves towards the exits, her pale gaze lit up and she strode towards you,
"You," she barked, towering over the bar, "Are you the keeper of this shambles?"
Once again, you didn't much care for the assessment, but faced with a famously more volatile Horseman, you managed to swallowed your pride and gave her a tight-lipped smile. "That'd be me... What can I do for you?"
Scrunching up her nose, she gave you a slow, disdainful once-over....
... And then she promptly burst out laughing.
It was such a jarring sound that you stumbled backwards, crashing into an array of bottles behind you and sending one of them toppling off the side to smash on the ground.
This only served to make her laugh even harder. It was low, grating, a barbarous sort of sound that raised your hackles and left you wondering how many she's slain who have heard that same, mocking roar.
"This?!" she exclaimed to nobody in particular - almost all of your clientele had fled by that point - "This is the human who has my brother so ensorcelled!?"
By the time she'd cackled herself out of breath and draped her armoured forearms over your bar, the last of your regulars had slipped out the back door.
You let the silence seep back in from the corners as she heaved a satisfied sigh.
Only then did you pipe up. "Wow... Don't think I've made someone laugh that hard since I asked Dan Symes to the school dance."
Fury blinked across at you, her face falling open as if she'd only just remembered that you were even in the room with her, let alone actively speaking to her.
"So," you added, trying to ooze the kind of nonchalance you definitely weren't feeling, "Your brother's mentioned me, has he?"
You'd heard along the grapevine that Fury was the Horseman with most experience interacting with humans. Something about assigning herself the role of Protector to a handful of survivors after the Destroyer launched an assault on their sanctuary. Perhaps that's why she slipped into conversation with you more easily than her brother had.
"Mentioned you?" she parroted, clicking her tongue, "He hasn't shut up about you. 'The human who stood in his path to protect a young thief from his righteous wrath!' Ugh. It's beginning to drive my brothers and I to drink..."
You had to consciously stop your jaw from falling open at the knowledge that War hadn't been more unflattering in his description of you, or that he'd talked about you at all. With the other Horsemen no less...
Slapping on a commiserating grin, you gestured at the bottles lining the wall behind you and said, "Well then. Seems you've come to the right place."
She eyed your selection dubiously, even went so far as to curl her lip in distaste.
"I doubt you have anything strong enough to merit me spending the gilt."
"As much as I'm loathe to correct one of the Four," you ventured cautiously, "The amount of gilt your brother gave me to repair the damage he caused has pretty much bought him the next fifty rounds, so-."
Her head snapped up like the crack of her famous whip, eyes suddenly glittering with intrigue. "He... repaid you?" she demanded, incredulously, sparing a glance over her shoulder at the last of the broken tables you've since shoved against the far wall, "War?"
There was a deafening pause, and then swivelled back to the bar, brows raised high up her forehead as she muttered to herself, "Oh this is an exciting development..."
You just pretended you hadn't heard her.
"I could extend the offer to members of his family, if you like," you shrugged, bending down and reaching for the cupboard below the bar, notably out of your regulars' line of sight.
"Hmph," she snorted, "If Strife ever bumbles his way into this place, do not tell him the same. He will drink your whole stock dry."
"Well, he'd be welcome too," you grunted, stretching your arm right to the back and grabbing the neck of a black bottle that was always strangely ice-cold to the touch, "War isn't the first who broke some furniture in my pub, and I doubt he'll be the last. But he is the first and only one who actually tried to make things right. So..."
Popping up again in front of the Horseman, you slid a shot glass across the bar top until it bumped into her arm and held up the bottle for her to see. "As for something strong enough... I got this off a demon who owed me for a favour. I've been told that this stuff can knock a Trauma on its ass."
She glowered dubiously at the impenetrable darkness swirling within the bottle, opaque from top to bottom, no label, no year, just a simple cork in its top.
"Buying spirits from a demon? " she huffed, squinting at you for a moment before she added, "... What's it called?"
Pursing your lips, you replied, "He called it Hair of the Hellhound. Said it's got one heck of a bite."
"Perhaps it does," she conceded, though not before letting out a quick barb, "For a mere human."
You could see the cogs in her head churning around as she flicked her piercing gaze between you and the bottle, no doubt wondering if the consequences of taking the mystery shot will be worse than losing face in front of a 'mere human.'
At last, as you stood there waiting for her verdict, she rolls her eyes and lets out another petulant scoff. "Fine," she agreed, waving her hand at the bottle and beckoning you forwards to pour the shot, "I suppose I can at least tell you if you've bought a dud. What was the name of the demon?"
You screwed your face up as you tried to remember the shady merchant who you sheltered last year during a demonic purge carried out by a very vengeful angel. "Vulgrim? I think he said?"
In an instant, she looked a hell of a lot less eager to go through with the challenge. But in her own mind, she'd already committed.
When you tugged the cork free, an absolute deathly aroma rose into your nostrils, hitting your gag reflex when it settled at the back of your throat.
"Shit, that's rancid!" you gasped, pivoting your head away and watching the pour from the corner of an eye, "Are you sure you want to drink this?"
"If it's Vulgrim's, it'll be better than the rest of this swill you peddle," she admitted begrudgingly as she picked up the glass - comically small in her hands - and regarded it with a cautious glare of trepidation. "You're not joining me?"
Puffing out your cheeks, you blew a long, low whistle through your lips and shook your head rapidly from side to side. "Ah, I don't have a successor lined up in the event of my death," you pointed out with a lopsided grin, "And I'm pretty sure one sip of that stuff will bury me six feet under this place."
"Humans," she huffed, raising the glass to her lips, "Is there anything about you that isn't pathetic?"
You hadn't thought of a witty response in time.
She knocked back the entire glass, slammed it down on the counter so hard you nearly leapt forward in anticipation of shielding her from a wayward spray of shattered fragments, then proceeded to lean there with a focused look on her face, shoulders hunched, arms tense.
You just watched her, the breath in your lungs going still.
“It is good to find somewhere that serves real drinks for a change….” she rasped through a tight throat, turning on her heel and marching stiffly towards the door.
Before she reached it, she slowed to a stop, tilting her head around just enough that you caught a glimpse of her painted lips pulled up into a loose smile.
“Perhaps you should tell Strife that concoction is ‘on the house,” she smirked, “But make sure he doesn’t drink all of it. I might find myself coming in for a glass, if I’m in the area.”
And then she, like her brother, was gone, ducking through the doorframe and disappearing back into the overcast city beyond.
—— ————
The downpour started this morning.
People have been dipping into your pub all day just to escape the lashings of rain, shaking their umbrellas out in the foyer and squelching on sodden shoes all the way up to the bar.
Each person, you greet with an affable smile and a warm "What can I get you?"
"Quiet in here today," the woman you're currently serving chirps as you set about getting a round of beers for her and her friends.
Humming in response, you fall into the conversation easily. "Yeah but it's no surprise. People aren't keen to venture out in this god-awful weather. And it's not like any of us can drive yet."
"Ugh, I can't wait for someone to get cars working again," she commiserates, slouching her shoulders.
"Never realised what we had until we don't have it right?" you chuckle, placing the last tankard on a round, black tray. "Total's fifteen."
Smiling at you, she digs her hand into a pocket and rummages for a moment before extracting a handful of gilt. "Right... That's... Which coin means what again?"
You can't help but grin ruefully. Yet another thing humans had to get used to in the aftermath of the Great Awakening - using an entirely new and universal currency.
A palm slaps hard onto the bar top in front of you just as you're leaning forwards to point out the different glyphs on each coin.
"I'll be with you in a minute," you drone out on autopilot, barely sparing a glance at the trio of men who've clustered against the bar.
With the payment away and the till closing noisily shut, you help the woman pick up her tray and give her a parting nod.
"Cheers," the woman says before sauntering away towards the table where her friends sit waiting.
"Now then." You swivel about to address the newcomers. "What can I get for you?"
The one in front, flanked on either side by two other men sporting similar jackets with the hoods pulled low over their eyes, rests a palm on the counter, putting his weight on in and flashing you an unsettlingly wide, toothy grin.
"Nothing too difficult, love," he drawls, "Just after some information, that's all."
"You know, despite my profession, I'm not one for gossip," you tell him evasively, already on edge.
"Oh I'm sure that's not true. See me and my friends here-" He nods his head at the man on his left, then swings it lazily around to the man on his right, "Well, a little birdie told us that you're the reason we're short one rare artifact..."
Recognition snaps straight into place at the very forefront of your mind. You have the sneaking suspicion that these men are after the horn Joseph pilfered from War. Damnit, you knew Jo has been getting into some shady business lately, but this is the icing on a shit-cake.
Outwardly, of course, you just purse your lips and quirk a brow, moving forwards to brace your hands on the bar, mirroring the ringleader's posture.
"Artifact?" you repeat, "Can't say I've come across one of those. As you can see, my inventory is made up of liquid stock."
One of the man's eyelids twitches, and his friend's fists begin to clench and unclench in the corner of your vision.
You acknowledge neither.
"Listen," he purrs, "It's obvious you're the owner of this... fine establishment... And my sources don't get things wrong unless they want to answer to me. So cut the bullshit, and give me what you owe."
Ah. Takes a bullshitter to spot a bullshitter, you suppose. Still, it seems you won't be lying your way out of this one.
"Owe?" Scoffing, you narrow your eyes and add, "Not sure how you figure I owe you, all I did was stop a Horseman from tearing your man to pieces before he took his artefact back. Or perhaps you think I should have let the Horseman torture the poor kid into telling him who ordered the swipe."
The men on either side of the stranger shift their weight uncomfortably, and even their leader clenches his jaw, the smile falling off his face for just a second before he slaps it back on.
"Be that as it may," he says, fingers drumming obnoxiously on the bar, "Fact remains, your interference cost me a tidy sum. So, I'm not an unreasonable man-"
Something in the way he gestures to himself as he says that makes you doubt his claim very much.
"I'm willing to overlook your transgression if you're willing to ease my monetary troubles..."
God, he talks like a sleazy salesman, slow and casual yet somehow with far too much pomp and magniloquence.
"Maybe some of that liquid stock ends up coming home with me and my boys here," he chuckles, "Or maybe that till there opens up so we can see just how much we think losing that artifact set us back..."
Shit...
Nobody is coming up to buy another round yet, and most of the patrons have already been served, slowly nursing their drinks in the comfortable - strong - seats you'd purchased with War's gilt.
Nobody has even noticed anything is amiss. For all they know, you could be giving these people directions to the nearest safe house for how nonchalant he's being.
He must have seen your resolve wavering right in front of him, because his smile becomes a slimy thing, and he stares at you, his eyes unblinking.
"I think it would be in your best interest to comply," he murmurs under his breath, and as he moves an arm back, his hand just so happens to brush back the hem of his coat, and there within the shadows is the tell-tale glint of a short, silver barrel, "It would be such a shame if bad things started happening to your pub..."
Son of a bitch.
You're so busy keeping a close eye on where his hand is moving that you don't even register the shape moving under the doorway beyond your foyer, scarlet and gunmetal grey that would have alerted you to danger were it not for the clearer and more present danger taking up your allotted senses.
Ever since you built this pub up from its ruined foundations, you've tried to project a rather unflappable front for your customers. As it is now, that façade is starting to crumble. Heart in your throat, your breath hitches violently when the man's fingers slide around the grip of his gun, and when you dart a glance up at the face grinning out at you from under his dark hood, you realise he doesn't look like the kind of man who bluffs.
"... Would be such a shame," he repeats purposefully, "If bad things started happening to y- GHK!?"
For a man so immense, you're staggered that War could move in with such unparalleled stealth.
One second, you're watching a man pull a gun halfway out of the waistband of his jeans, and the next, that same man's head comes crashing down onto the bar, pinned there by the base of his neck by a metal gauntlet that spans the width of his shoulders as well.
"Christ!" you exclaim, leaping backwards and colliding painfully with the shelf behind you.
The remaining two men are already scrabbling sideways and away from the colossus heaving between then, blue eyes on fire, scarlet hood dripping dark with the rainwater from outside.
War's teeth are on display as he snarls savagely at the man trapped by his hand, whose limbs are flailing uselessly in an attempt to free himself, muffled shouts cried through a mouth pressed flush against the counter. Frantic palms slap against metal, grabbing at the Horseman's fingers to try - and fail - to shove them away.
"War!?" you blurt, drawing his eyes up to meet yours.
It's fast, blink and you'd miss it, but you could almost be convinced that for just a moment, the steely glare on his face softens by a fraction when he sees you.
It's gone as soon as it appeared however. A deafening 'BANG' rings out across the pub, people shriek, and those who hadn't already dived for cover the second War strolled in throw themselves to the floor, hands flying up to cover their heads.
Something pings off War's shoulder pauldron, tinkling to the bar and rolling to a stop just in front of you. You can see it plain as day, standing out against the black surface.
A bullet.
War's chest suddenly begins to vibrate with a thunderous growl you can feel deep inside your chest. Slowly, his head twists around, the tendons in his neck flexing with the grinding of his teeth.
Clutching your chest, you follow his gaze to the front of the pub near the entrance, where one of the men has paused, breathing hard, eyes bulging like they're about to fall out of their sockets.
In his trembling hand is another gun, a trail of smoke rising gently from the tip of its barrel.
The words come out before you can think to stop them.
"Did you just shoot War?" It's said as a scoff, a mote of incredulous hysteria. What kind of idiot would think shooting a gun at a Horseman of the Apocalypse was in any way a good idea?
The man's rolling eyes snap towards you at the sound of your voice, but by the time you realise you probably should have ducked behind the bar several seconds ago, your vision is blocked by an enormous bulwark of red and grey armour.
War, to your astonishment, has stepped in front of you, a very deliberate move that has him dragging the first man off the counter and letting him dangle by the scruff of his jacket from a clenched gauntlet, sputtering all manner of curses and threats to an impervious Horseman.
The third man, you note, is nowhere to be seen, having apparently decided that loyalty isn't worth as much as he thought it was. And his fellow lackey isn't far behind. The one who took a shot at War promptly turns on his heel and scrambles for the door.
You can't see the Horseman's face anymore, just the up and down heave of shoulders as wide as you are tall. To your surprise, he doesn't make a move to follow the runners, not at first.
Instead, his hood shifts slightly as he turns his head beneath it, angling it sideways in your direction.
"They will not evade me for long," he tells you resolutely, hoisting the first offender off his knees and onto his feet, "What would you have me do with this one?"
"You're... asking me?"
There's a pregnant pause, broken by the sound of wet, miserable blubbers of the man in question.
When War speaks again, you're caught off guard by the hesitation in his thrumming voice.
"This is... your patron?" he murmurs, "This is your bar."
Oh. You blink, recoiling slightly. He remembered what you told him when you first met...?
And he's trying to adhere to it? Granted, in a slightly misguided way.
... War?
"I... I mean, if he didn't have a gun, I would have told him to get out of here anyway, so... once he's out of that door, he's all yours."
You think you hear a subdued grunt of approval from somewhere within that hood, followed by an even quieter, "They will not trouble you again."
And without another word, War drags the man towards the exit, showing no signs of slowing as his quarry begins screaming in earnest and trying to yank his jacket free.
When the door swings shut behind the Horseman, you strain your ears to catch any sounds of violence. Part of you harshly tells yourself that you should be ashamed for letting that man be subjected to whatever punishment War sees fit to inflict.
But the other part of you, the older, sadder part, thinks, 'Well, he shouldn't have come in here to find trouble if he didn't like it when trouble turned up.'
It remains eerily quiet for several minutes whilst you watch the doorway, eyes fixed to the little window, through which you can only see a glimpse of the grey, rainy street outside.
The pub sits empty. Again. Nothing left behind but full glasses and spilled bottles that were knocked over on the tables as people fled, trickling alcohol all over the carpets.
What a mess... But you much prefer this kind of mess to the blood and carnage you'd been expecting...
You wonder if anyone will return to ask for a refund. 'Acts of Horsemen related hijinks' probably isn't covered by your policy....
Just as your rigid limbs start to unwind, the door is shoved open once again, and you snap back to attention in a split second, fingers digging nervously around the edge of the bar.
War steps back inside, rivulets of rainwater pouring off his armour and dripping to the floor.
You find your gaze immediately trying to seek out any sign of blood, but the vast blade he keeps perpetually strapped across his back doesn't trickle anything other than water onto your carpets as the Horseman strides towards you, his gaze as locked onto you as yours is to him.
"Are you hurt?" is the first thing he asks before he's even come to a stop in front of you on the other side of the bar.
"No," you tell him honestly, chewing on your lip as he gives you a none-too subtle once-over before you add, "Thank you, by the way."
The snow-white brows that had been screwed together into a scowl promptly spring apart, and he stares at you incredulously, as if you'd said something far more racy than a simple 'thanks.'
Breezing past his surprise, you let out a long, gushing sigh and spare a glance out the front-facing window, think aloud, "I wonder why they'd want your Earthcaller thing...?"
War just cocks his head to the side, confusion etched clearly into his expression. "Earthcaller?" he asks.
"Yeah?" Giving him a cautious smile, you add, "I mean I assume that's why you followed them here? Cos you found out they were the ones who wanted it stolen from you in the first place."
A muscle in his jaw twitches violently, nostrils flaring with barely contained irritation as he flings a filthy look behind himself at the door. "I was not aware that they were the culprits..." he spits.
Slowly, it dawns on you that a Horseman of the Apocalypse hadn't intervened to serve his own interests.
Had he really just stepped in to help you?
Bewildered, you shake your head and scrunch your nose up, asking, "Wait. If you weren't here for them... why'd you come back?"
Turning back to you, the Horseman's expression is once again marginally gentler than it had been a mere second ago. "It was raining," he tells you simply.
His response takes you a few moments to parse, but when you finally recall the context, your face brightens with a sincere, if baffled, grin.
"In that case, welcome back. Now, let me fetch you a towel. You're soaked through to the bone."